


The Unlucky Samaritan

by Cinaed



Series: The Best of Carolina The Teenage Witch [18]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sabrina the Teenage Witch Fusion, Flashbacks, Gen, Magic, Spells & Enchantments, Trials
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-14 11:06:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19272022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinaed/pseuds/Cinaed
Summary: Both Locus and Grif have very bad days in very different ways.





	The Unlucky Samaritan

**Author's Note:**

> The second to last update of season two! 
> 
> Thanks goes out to Aryashi for holding my hand with this one since Felix and Locus's voices are a bit daunting. And for figuring out a title.
> 
>  **ETA:** Fixed a timing mistake in the final scene, whoops!

Felix agreed to lay low, but it’s been two weeks of nothing, just the reporters constantly theorizing what Felix and Locus could be up to at the moment and Kimball grinding her teeth a lot. Carolina wants to know too. Are they going after Drell? Do they have something else in mind? Carolina knows she told Church she would keep out of it, but she keeps eyeing the knife and thinking about at least scrying on them. They wouldn’t know, and as long as she doesn’t do anything else, it wouldn’t be dangerous.

“Nope,” Church says when she finally suggests it. They’re in her room. He’s sitting at her desk, feet propped up and in danger of knocking her assigned reading to the floor. When she suggests scrying, he turns and fixes her with an incredulous look. “Not happening.”

“But--”

“No. Let the Council handle it.”

“Aren’t you curious?” Carolina demands.

“Nope,” Church says again, drawing out the word so that it pops from his lips. “I like blissful ignorance. You should try it.” He pauses and shoots her another look, one that has heat creeping into her face even before he adds, “Besides, it wouldn’t _just_ be scrying. You’d want to screw up their plans.”

Carolina opens her mouth, and then shuts it, scowling. She can’t really argue with that.

“Yeah,” Church says, like she’s said something. His expression softens a little. “Just try not to worry about it. Seriously, it’s not our problem.”

 

* * *

 

**One Week Earlier**

“We’re done laying low,” Felix announces with a sharp grin. He holds up the spellbook. “It’s time to figure out what we’re doing to Westbridge.”

Locus represses a sigh. He’d hoped that Felix would forget about Westbridge and that reckless teenage witch. He should have known better. Felix can hold onto grudges for centuries. He won’t forget someone who humiliated him, especially not after only a week. “Three or four witches is not a lot,” he says. “We should focus on the original plan.”

Felix snorts. “Come on, why not have a warm up? And hurting some nice little family is exactly the kind of thing that will get other witches up in arms at the Council. Just consider it a fun extra step.” He flips through the spellbook. When he pauses, Locus sees that he’s glancing at the directory.

“Hurting teenage half-mortals is the opposite of--” Locus stops, distracted by the way Felix’s face lights up with a sudden dangerous excitement.

“Three or four witches isn’t enough? How about nine?”

“Nine?” Locus echoes. He accepts the spellbook when Felix offers it. Locus looks over the page, trying to figure out what has Felix grinning like his birthday has come early. There are nine witches listed as residing in Westbridge, Massachusetts.

Two familiar names jump out at him.

_Dexter Grif_

_Vanessa Kimball_

Locus frowns. He scans the entire list slowly, and then rereads a second time just to be sure. Kimball and a woman named Emily Grey are presumably Carolina and James Church’s temporary guardians until they get their licenses. There’s a family called the Spellmans with their own teenage witch and another witch by the name of Salem Saberhagen. There’s no other witch listed in Westbridge. As far as the directory is concerned, Dexter Grif lives alone.

That can’t be right. No familiar can live on his or her own. As unlikely as it seems, maybe the Council pardoned him or shortened his sentence to a year. It’s not something Control would have thought to mention.

“Like I said, nine witches,” Felix says gleefully.

With a start, Locus remembers why they were looking at the directory in the first place.

Felix smirks. “Kimball, that bratty little witch, _and_ your best friend Dexter Grif?” His voice goes sharp and sarcastic on the last name. “Westbridge is just _full_ of fun surprises. Imagine the chaos when people find out three teen witches and a familiar were killed and the Council had its thumb up its--” Locus doesn’t think his expression changes, but Felix stops mid-sentence, his eyes narrowing. “What?”

Locus frowns. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to,” Felix says. He sneers suddenly, his good mood turning ugly. He snatches the spellbook back and rolls his eyes. “What, do you not want your friend hurt? He’s a familiar. It’ll barely count.”

Locus ignores the question, though he wonders not for the first time why Felix is so offended by the witch’s very existence. “We’re running this by Control first.” When Felix looks ready to argue, he adds meaningfully, “The last time we acted without orders--”

“Fine, fine!” Felix grumbles. “Twist my arm.”

Hopefully Control will say it’s overkill and get Felix back on track for the real mission. Still, Locus wonders about Dexter Grif. Even if he was pardoned, why is he in Westbridge, Massachusetts of all places? His home is in Hawaii. If he wasn't pardoned, why isn't there a guardian listed for him? And what happened with that other witch who rescued the Church teenagers? Locus doesn't like that he has so many unanswered questions.

Felix throws the spellbook onto the bed. “Well? Let’s send him a message. The sooner he says yes, the sooner we can have some fun.”

 

* * *

 

**Present Day**

Felix snarls, pacing the hotel room. As the days have stretched on without any response from Control, he’s gotten more and more stir-crazy. Now he’s practically climbing up the walls. “You know, I’m beginning to feel unappreciated.”

Locus has been flipping through the spellbook, searching for a spell that will distract Felix for another few days without compromising their hideout. He flips to the next page and says evenly, “He’ll get in contact.” He’s not surprised when Felix snarls again.

“In, what, another week? After two thousand years of being the bridesmaid and never the bride, you’d think he’d want to overthrow the Council tomorrow!”

“I always forget how young you are, and then you say something like that,” a new voice says, and Felix spins to glare at the now magicked painting above the television. Control blinks large, watery eyes at him. His voice is smooth and accented, nothing to suggest his age. “Years are nothing compared to centuries.”

Felix’s glare darkens. He hates when Control patronizes them, as though living three hundred years is nothing at all. “Seriously? You want to wait another couple of centuries to be in charge?”

The painting shrugs. “Not particularly. But a few decades to enact a successful plan is an easy sacrifice.” The smooth voice hardens. “Or would be, if you two would stick with your original agreement.”

“Yeah, about that,” Felix says. “You want us to make the Council look bad, right? I had an idea on how to do that. Locus is being a wet blanket about it but it’s gonna be great. Just--”

Locus half-listens to the plan, which has grown slightly more elaborate the longer Felix waited for Control’s response. He focuses mostly on Control’s expression, waiting for the disapproval he expects will come.

Instead Control’s lips part in a thin smile. “Westbridge?” he says when Felix finishes. He says the town’s name with an odd satisfaction, and Locus gets a sinking sensation in his stomach. “What an...interesting choice.”

“Are we sure this is the right move?” Locus asks. He pretends not to see the nasty look Felix sends his way.

Control keeps smiling. He waves a hand and says dismissively, “Oh, it’s nothing a little Council time reversal spell couldn’t fix. But people would _remember_.”

And the witches who died would remember it too, Locus thinks. His near-death experience had been bad enough. What would it be like to remember dying, and then wake up that morning knowing that only the Council’s decision had avoided it being permanent? If Grif is still a familiar, he may have already experienced a death or two. Whatever the case, the experience is going to be unpleasant.

Locus shifts his shoulders and tries not to get distracted by unpleasant memories.

He fails.

 

* * *

 

**A Year and a Half Earlier**

Whatever spell just hit Locus feels like a hammer cracking down between his shoulder-blades.

He staggers. His fingers and toes feel strange, all pins and needles and then a deep ache that gives way to numbness. He stumbles doggedly forward, seeking the teleportation circle he made just in case of discovery. He notices too late that his feet have muddled the chalk and disrupted the destination symbol.

Locus has a second’s regret, and then there’s a flash of light.

It feels like a miracle that he even survives the teleportation. Still, there may be aftereffects; he feels deafened by the sudden silence, the shouts of angry Council members and their stooges and Felix’s furious yells replaced by nothing.

And still the pain and numbness in his fingers and toes spread, weighing down his limbs. His shoulders ache. When he looks down, the moonlight falls upon fingers turning gray, frozen in a rictus of stone.

“Unfortunate,” he says.

He doesn’t particularly want to die, especially not such a slow, lingering death. Weren’t stone spells supposed to be instantaneous? He can’t even die confident that what he and Felix did will change anything. Will this destabilize the Council enough for Control to make his move? Or will Control have to find new partners in his plan?

There’s another bright light, and Locus winces, distracted from the pain and his bleak thoughts by an unfriendly voice.

“Dude, I didn’t order anything, so you’ve got ten seconds to-- wait. What’s up with your hands?”

Locus reassesses. He and Felix intended to hide among the mortals, but the plan was to hole up somewhere in Europe. The disruption of the chalk has sent him somewhere else. He's on a beach, the waves crashing softly behind him, the salt air stinging his throat when he takes in a breath, now that he can notice anything beyond the spell's pain.

There’s a man standing in the open door of a small beach house, staring at him. He’s wearing sweatpants and a ratty t-shirt, his feet bare like he’s just stumbled out of bed. “Seriously, your hands,” the man says, alarm creeping into his voice. He takes a step outside.

Locus is too surprised to do anything when the man grabs at his wrists. He can’t feel the grip, the numbness already creeping towards his elbows. He can't do a spell either, to wipe the mortal's memory of this.

“Crap. Crap crap crap, that's some serious magic. Who the heck did you-- never mind. I don't wanna know. Get inside before I've gotta figure out who to call about an unwanted statue.”

Inside proves to be a living room with a worn-out couch and a bunch of old pizza boxes littering the floor. Locus, already clumsy from the numbness in his feet that’s inching up his legs, almost trips over one.

The witch runs a hand through his hair, looking slightly wild around the eyes. “Ugh, where's my spellbook? Just, uh, sit on the couch and think happy thoughts about not turning into a statute okay? There’s gotta be a spell to fix-- yeah. There’s gotta be a spell.”

Locus watches him ransack his own home, tossing aside delivery boxes and muttering to himself. Now that his surprise has faded, he’s acutely aware of the slow pain of the stone spell. He rests his head against the couch, closing his eyes. “You should--”

 _You shouldn’t help me,_ is what he tries to say, but the man cuts him off with a defensive, “Yeah, I should know where my spellbook is, sue me! I don’t really need it when my sister isn’t around doing dumb stuff, okay? Food spells are good enough. Just gimme a minute!”

Locus frowns. He opens his eyes to find the other man’s shoulders are up around his ears and he’s scowling. He tries to speak again, though it’s getting harder, his heavy arms making his shoulders pulse with pain. He says through gritted teeth, “No, you-- you shouldn’t--”

“Shouldn’t what, dude?”

“Help,” Locus says. He wants to say more, to explain exactly what this man is doing by helping him, but that last word exhausts him. He sucks in a deep breath, savoring it before the stone spell can inevitably reach his lungs.

The man laughs. It’s not a mean laugh, though. More confused than anything else. “Yeah, uh, I’m not letting you _die_. Now shut up and stop distracting me-- wait, I’m stupid.” He points a finger in the air and grimaces.

Something bumps against Locus’s legs, barely felt as the stone spell creeps further upwards. The spellbook darts around him towards the man, landing in his hands with a pleased flutter.

“Okay, stone spell, stone spell, gotta have the reversal spell with it,” the man mutters, flipping through the book. He apparently finds it, because he makes a relieved sound. “Okay, that’s-- that’s doable.” He drops the spellbook onto the couch next to Locus and then bolts from the room.

Locus closes his eyes again. He doesn’t care to watch the stone creep up his arms. He can feel the terrible spread of it, the pain in his shoulders giving way to the bone-deep ache and then the dangerous numbness. His hips ache too as the spell creeps up his thighs. He sucks in another desperate breath. He’s miscalculated, he thinks through the haze of pain. The stone spell will reach his throat before his lungs.

There’s a clumsy hand on his cheek. “Hey, look at me. The spell’s not sealed, okay? I can break it.”

It’s harder to open his eyes this time. The man’s worried face blurs as Locus blinks, but not before he’s seen the unexpected concern in the man’s expression. It’s strange to see worry directed at him. He can’t speak, but his weak attempt at a nod has the man going, “Okay, just-- just let me do this.”

Locus closes his eyes again. He doesn’t want to see the man’s look if the reversal spell fails.

There’s a strange sensation of water hitting his hair. It spills down his face, droplets clinging to his eyelashes as he blinks in surprise. When his lips part, he can taste the tepid water.

Above him, the man says urgently, “With the water I now bestow, this man’s doom I do forgo. Though this man be cursed to stone, restore his body to flesh and bone.”

The reversal spell hurts too. Sharp, stabbing pains bloom in Locus’s affected limbs like pins and needles multiplied by ten. He hisses through clenched teeth even as he flexes his fingers and toes.

Locus opens his eyes as the man flops down onto the couch next to him.

The man’s face shines with perspiration, but also with relief. His expression is wide-eyed as he grins at Locus. “Dude, I am _so_ glad you’re not dead,” he says earnestly.

It’s probably the nicest thing anyone has said to Locus in centuries. He laughs, both at the thought and at the man’s earnestness, his amusement colored by regret. The man won’t feel the same way once the Council knocks down his door. Locus tries to tell him so, but the weak, dry laugh exhausts him.

“I’ll take that as a thank-you,” the man mutters. He yawns. “Crap, I haven’t had to do magic like that since Kai-- uh, nevermind. Wow, I’m--” Another yawn escapes him. “Tired. Nap, and then you can figure out where you’re gonna hide from whoever hates you.”

Locus shouldn’t stay. He should leave before the Council tracks him down. Maybe the Council won’t know that this man saved his life. But when Locus tries to move, weariness weighs on him. He can still flex his fingers and toes, but his body feels heavier than stone.

The man shifts beside him and says, “You know what, I deserve some food after that crap. Gimme a sec and I’ll magic us something.” The man yawns again, but props his foot up on the coffee table and kicks some trash off of it.

If that’s the man’s idea of housecleaning, it’s a wonder the place doesn’t reek, Locus thinks, amused again. The place smells faintly of leftover pizza and more strongly of the salt sea air, like the man leaves his windows open all the time.

There’s a spark of orange from the man’s finger, and a pizza box appears in the place he’s cleared on the table. “Everyone likes pizza,” he says, noticing Locus watching. His tone’s matter-of-fact.

“Do they?” The question slips out, faint and slightly hoarse, and the man laughs.

“Uh, yeah. Basic fact of life.” The man offers Locus a slice, grease dripping from his fingers. When Locus shakes his head, certain that if he tries to eat now he’ll fall asleep with food in his mouth, the man shrugs. “Fine, more for me. Or you can take some when you leave. Seriously, dude, take a nap. You look-- uh, well, like you almost got turned to stone.”

Locus doesn’t need to be told twice. He closes his eyes.

The last thing he hears before he falls asleep is the man muttering, “Kai’s not gonna believe this.”

The next thing he hears is a thunder clap and the sound of shouting as the Council breaks down the man’s closet door and rushes the room.

 

* * *

 

**Present Day**

Locus stays silent as Control and Felix discuss the plan, Control offering an idea for the spell and potential ingredients they might need.

“Well,” Control says. He’s still looking oddly pleased. “I look forward to seeing your work. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I should prepare a condolence speech for the families of the witches involved. The incident will be reversed, of course, but there are those few hours in between….”

When the painting reverts, Felix grins. “I knew he’d go for it,” he says. Then he rolls his eyes. “Quit looking at me like that. God, you really do try to ruin everything. Even Control thinks it’s a great idea!”

Locus rearranges his expression to something neutral. He keeps his doubts to himself. Felix isn’t in the mood to hear his reservations that this doesn’t feel like their original mission. And Control had said it would be reversed. “Where are we getting the ingredients?” he says instead, trying to focus on the next step. The destruction and the deaths won’t be permanent, not like the Lozanos, who had deserved everything he and Felix had done to them.

Dexter Grif would have an unpleasant day, but he would ultimately be fine.

The thought rings hollow.

Locus remembers Dexter Grif’s terrified expression, the witch shivering in his chains as he stood in the courtroom before a furious Council ready to condemn him as an accessory to murder.

 

* * *

 

**A Year and a Half Earlier**

Locus has no plans to speak in his or Felix’s defense at their trial. What’s the point? They’re guilty of the accused crimes. Besides, he won’t find any sympathy in any of the Council members seated in judgment before him if he explains his reasons. When the Council reads out the charges against him, he just nods.

Felix doesn’t let the Council finish announcing his charges. He rants until Drell makes a quick, annoyed gesture and his yells cut off abruptly. Felix’s mouth is still moving, but nothing comes out. Hatred burns in his eyes. If a witch could murder with a mere thought, Drell would be dead a thousand times over.

Locus has few regrets. Both realms will be better places without Ruben Lozano and his son. He does regret being captured so quickly, when his work is only half-finished.

His other regret is about the other man in the dock, staring wide-eyed and frightened as the Council reads out the charges against him.

“Dexter Grif, you are charged with conspiracy against the Council and two counts of accessory to murder. How do you plead?”

“Uh, not guilty,” Dexter Grif says. His voice is high with panic. The Council hasn’t even allowed him to change into different clothes. He’s still wearing the sweatpants and shirt that he wore at his arrest. The only difference is his flip flops, which squeak faintly as he shifts anxiously from one foot to the other. “I didn’t know who he was!”

Most of the Council looks skeptical. Drell actually laughs. “That’s a new excuse,” he says, amused. He glances at his fellow members. “What do you say, guys? Give him some points for originality?”

Skippy nods, but Cassandra shakes her head. “It might be original, but it’s ridiculous,” she says. She stares at Dexter Grif, who winces at her cool look. “Do you really take us for fools?”

“No, I-- I’m telling the truth! He was just some guy who needed help, so I-- I didn’t think it was the Council who was after him! I didn’t think he was a killer.” Dexter Grif’s voice cracks on the last word, and he darts a half-disbelieving, half-accusing look Locus’s way, like he still can’t believe it.

Locus shifts, discomforted by Dexter Grif’s expression. He thinks of the charges laid against the man, how likely it is for him to end up on Pluto or as a familiar for a century or exiled to the Republic of Infinite Horror, all for saving Locus’s life. He’s heard they’ve been getting inventive with more exotic familiars lately. Someone had been turned into a shark, and a few others into penguins.

Drell snorts. “Yeah. We’ll take that into consideration,” he says, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

Dexter Grif’s shoulders slump.

The Council refocuses on Felix and Locus. As they go into more detail about the crimes, Felix continues silently shouting at them, as though Drell’s spell might slip and let him actually talk. He’s restricted in his movement like Locus and Dexter Grif, the chains preventing any spellwork or gestures, but he still radiates rage and a seething hatred.

Dexter Grif, meanwhile, goes silent and slightly green. He keeps up the disbelieving looks in Locus’s direction, but now they’re tinged with horror.

By the time Drell says, “Well, unless any of you want to say something in your own defense -- not that it will matter, ha -- it’s time for sentencing!” Dexter Grif looks close to being physically ill. He’s shaking so hard that his chains constantly clank and chime, an uncomfortable musical accompaniment to the trial.

Drell waves his hand, and Felix’s voice returns to him mid-shout.

“--only sorry we didn’t get all of you!”

Cassandra smiles coldly. Clearly she doesn’t think they would have caught her unawares like Ruben. As Drell silences Felix again, she glances at Dexter Grif. “Well? This is your chance to speak.”

“Y-you know, mortals have lawyers, and a real--” Dexter Grif takes a deep, shuddering breath and stops. “Um. Okay. I don’t-- I’ll go under a truth spell, just-- just listen, I didn’t _know_ \--”

“This again,” Drell says, sounding bored. He waves Dexter Grif into silence as well.

Dexter Grif’s mouth works for a second. He looks at Skippy, the only Council member who hasn’t said anything, but the witch just gives him a shrug. Hopelessness fills his expression.

“And you, Mr. Big and Silent?” Drell drawls, staring at Locus. “You don’t have anything to say?”

Locus starts to shake his head, and then hears himself saying, “Only that Dexter Grif is telling the truth. He didn’t know who I was.”

Everyone stares at him. The Council mostly looks shocked, with Cassandra darting a quick, calculating glance towards the cameras that are airing the trial live on the witch news channel. Felix looks outraged. Dexter Grif, meanwhile, starts nodding frantically, hope warring with panic on his face.

“Interesting,” Cassandra says. There’s no inflection in her voice.

Dexter Grif stares at her. When she doesn’t say anything else, his shoulders slump.

"Nothing to say in your own defense?" Cassandra asks. When Locus just looks at her, she turns to Drell and says, "Let's get on with it. I have places to be."

Drell glances at his watch. “Yeah, and my mole’s spa day is almost finished. Fine.” He waves another hand. Instantly a shining dome forms and separates Locus, Felix, and Dexter Grif from the Council. It hums, drowning out any sound beyond the walls.

Dexter Grif opens his mouth. His lips move before he realizes that Drell didn’t remove the silence spell from him or Felix. He grimaces and slumps in his chains. He shifts a little, like he wants to pace. Now when he stares at Locus, his expression is impossible to read.

Locus doesn’t say anything. An apology would be inadequate.

Felix, meanwhile, glares murderously, mostly at Locus but occasionally directing his glare at Dexter Grif. Locus doesn’t know how to read lips, but Felix repeats himself enough times that Locus hazards he’s saying something along the lines of “Way to be helpful, idiot.”

Locus ignores him.

A few minutes later, the dome disappears.

Lightning flashes above them while Drell stands. Both Skippy and Cassandra stand as well. When Drell speaks, his voice is like a thunder-clap, a spell deepening his voice as he shouts, “And now the Council proclaims sentence! For their crimes, Locus and Felix are found guilty. Their sentence is imprisonment on Pluto, with no possibility of parole!”

Felix snarls, still silent.

“As for Dexter Grif, he is found guilty--” The color leeches from Dexter Grif’s face, turning his brown skin ashen. “--of interfering with Council business. His sentence is fift--”

Drell stops, a pained grimace flitting across his face, and pauses to glare towards Cassandra, who coughs meaningfully and nods towards the cameras. Her robes shift, as though she’s adjusted her stance.

Drell scowls. Somehow his thunderous voice manages to sound sulky as he says, “His sentence is ten years as a witch familiar!”

Dexter Grif looks simultaneously horrified and relieved. He squeezes his eyes shut, taking in a deep, shaky breath.

The last sight Locus has of him is him being led towards the sentencing block where the executioner waits, his ax resting against his shoulder, the animal shape of the blade indistinguishable.

 

* * *

 

**Present Day**

The robbery is a smash and grab, made slightly more complicated by the fact that Felix and Locus are robbing a Council storage facility. But Locus knows the spells that gets them into places unnoticed. It’s how they caught Ruben and his son by surprise.

The bigger problem is convincing Felix that they can’t take everything in the facility.

“I could have fun with this,” Felix says, fingering the chains of a cursed amulet. “Maybe send it to Cassandra. It’d look good around her neck, don’t you think?” The amulet in question kills anyone who wears it.

“No,” Locus says. “Leave it. Stick to the plan.”

“Ugh, buzzkill,” Felix says, but drops the amulet back into its box. He studies the Hands Resist Him painting as well, bought from a mortal after a witch had been careless enough to curse it and lose it, but keeps away. Witches who handle that painting have a habit of finding themselves trapped within the art, often permanently.

Locus checks the ingredient list, checking off the ones they’d already found. When he realizes that they’re down to one last ingredient, he’s relieved. He doesn’t like the way Felix keeps eyeing a few of the more cursed objects, like he’s envisioning sending a goblet that turns all liquid within to poison to Drell and a vase that causes spontaneous combustion to Skippy.

“We just need a basilisk crest.”

“Yeah, okay,” Felix mutters after he gives the goblet one last longing glance.

Locus is carefully placing the crest into his bag when Felix says, “You know, with all this stuff, we could go bigger.”

Locus turns. “Bigger,” he says flatly. “We’re already destroying a city, and--”

Felix laughs. “Jeez, take a joke! Bigger is always better, but okay, sure, small and personal can be fun too.” He grins as he says it, sharp and dangerous, though Locus can’t tell if he’s thinking of Kimball, the teenager, Dexter Grif, or all three at the same time.

“Stick to the plan,” Locus repeats for good measure.

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s get out of here.”

 

* * *

 

“Breaking news!” the reporter says with the same artificial calm as before. “We’ve received word that a Council storage facility was robbed earlier tonight. The Council is refusing to elaborate on what exactly was stolen, but an anonymous source says that the theft involved a large supply of illegal magical ingredients. While there is no evidence so far linking Felix and Locus to the crime, what we do know is that these ingredients are illegal for a reason. They can be catastrophic in the wrong hands--”

Carolina, sitting frozen and furious on the couch next to Kimball, doesn’t listen to the rest. She stalks upstairs, glad that Kimball is too busy calling for Grey to come and listen to this to notice the way she’s shaking with anger.

“ _Now_ can I scry on them?!” she demands as she bursts into Church’s room.

He almost falls off his bed. He catches himself against the wall, blinking at her. “Uh, what?”

“Felix and Locus,” Carolina says through gritted teeth. “They just robbed a Council storage facility.”

Church’s expression turns from confusion to alarm. “Oh. Crap. Uh, what did they--”

“Lots of illegal stuff. The reporter used the word catastrophic.”

“Uh,” Church says. He opens his mouth, and then shuts it. His eyes narrow behind his glasses. Carolina bristles, sure he’s going to argue, but he says tersely instead, “Yeah. Okay. We’ll scry and, uh, figure out a way to anonymously send a message to the Council.”

Carolina’s relieved that he’s not going to argue with her, and then remembers something that will definitely cause an argument. She adds slowly, “And we need to tell Mr. Simmons about this.”

“Ugh. We really don’t.”

“Yeah, we do. He helped with the knife thing!”

“He shouldn’t be doing magic! It’s--” Church stops and shakes his head. “It’s going to cause him and Grif a lot of trouble when they get caught.”

“We need to tell him,” Carolina says. “I made a promise. I already broke it once.”

Church makes a face. “Okay. But he’ll probably want to be here to see the spell.” His expression shifts, turns thoughtful. “Maybe we should do the spell at his apartment.”

Carolina squints at him, suspicious of the suggestion. “We’re not making Mr. Simmons the fall guy.”

Church coughs and avoids her eyes. “I was...totally not suggesting that.”

“Uh huh,” Carolina says, unconvinced. “Kimball and Grey are probably distracted with the news. I’ll go call Mr. Simmons.”

She gets Mr. Simmons’ answering machine. She hesitates, not sure how much to say. In the end she leaves a brief, hurried message and hangs up a few seconds before Kimball storms into the kitchen and summons an entire carton of ice cream out of the freezer.

“Hi, Mr. Simmons. It’s Carolina. Uh, you wanted to be kept in the loop and some stuff happened, so Church and I are going to come to your place tomorrow night. Uh, we’ll be there at like eight, maybe later. Uh, bye!”

**Author's Note:**

> **Honorable Mention**
> 
> 2x19 - Surf’s Up - This episode might have contributed nothing to the actual plot of the season, but we still cherish it in our hearts. We get another day at the beach, this time as Grif tries to teach Simmons how to actually surf. The poor actor probably hated this episode, but it was and is still hilarious, especially with all the terrible surfer lingo Grif keeps throwing around and sometimes making up just to mess with Simmons. Oh yeah, and the other plot Church distracting Carolina with video games and then sulking when she’s better at them was pretty fun too. Did Church really expect anything different?


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